Throttled Hearts
by Chimuwaku
Summary: Koujaku claimed life returned to normal; however, he knew better than most that life would never be the same. [Follows Clear's good ending with Koujaku's thoughts and feelings.]


**A/N: **I just delved into the dmmd fandom two days ago and felt the need to write a little something. It follows Clear's good ending from Koujaku's POV.

* * *

Life returned to normal, Koujaku claimed. The mesmerized women crowded around him as his talent shone between each deft finger: he would raise his hand, a bright grin dazzling his fans, and reveal the sharpness of his scissors and durability of his comb. On those particular days, and in the first six months, he found pleasure (as he always did) in the sighs of women melting to heaven in his hands. Their long, flowing hair would snip away at his mercy. He was in control.

Something changed.

One particular Saturday, Koujaku indulged in an unannounced visit to Aoba's house (as he always did) to snack on whatever divine creation Tae-san would summon to the dinner—breakfast, lunch, snack, midnight snack, three o'clock snack, any meal at any time—table. He wooed his way into spending the night, the flash of a grin and a few dozen compliments slipping through each mouthful of Tae's doughnuts.

But somewhere along the way, with the distinct sound of running water coursing through the entire house as Aoba showered, Koujaku found himself witness to a surprisingly deep conversation between his Allmate Beni (chirping away in his mechanically-programmed voice) and Aoba's Allmate, Ren.

"It is not my place to answer."

"Ha! You do know, then?"

"…"

There was something inexplicably human about that silence, and despite the fact Ren was only an AI, a sigh would have suited him nicely. But with Koujaku's interest piqued, the silence disappeared in the closet like a worn-out turtleneck in Summer.

"You two aren't gossiping, are you?"

Ren glanced up, puppy-eyes piercing through the question.

"…No," is all he said. Beni flapped his wings to Koujaku's shoulder, tiny geta clasping onto the red threads of his kimono, and answered: "I was gathering information on Aoba's condition."

Koujaku's eyes enlarged to the size of a mutant donut, gleaming with concern. "Is Aoba okay!?" he asks next, directing his question to Ren.

"…There are no eminent problems."

The conversation died soon after, with Ren under no obligation to answer to any other human and Aoba returning to his bedroom soon after; but the worry did not subside, growing into a fickle ball deep within Koujaku's stomach. It festered and pulled at his worst thoughts. The following exchanging of jokes appeared normal, but in an effort to relax Koujaku excused himself to the balcony while his best friend delved into an Allmate magazine.

Between his thin, peculiar fingers rested a cigarette. He took one, two, three puffs, eying the display of smoke stretching up to the night sky, and let out a breath, shutting his eyelids.

Something changed. The first month after returning to the Former Residents' District, Aoba became distant and prone to extraordinary mood swings. (Not that he never had mild one before. Koujaku loved that little quirk of his.) He also took time off of work. Koujaku remembered this well, as his friend proclaimed himself to be a hard worker, profusely apologizing when dragged into social life on work hours.

Aoba also cooped himself up in his room like a chicken resolved to face death. His grandmother became so worried as to personally contact Koujaku on the matter, and whatever façade of normality broke in that moment. But if you asked Koujaku (up until the sixth month) his answer was always that life returned to normal. His pleasure in hairstyling did not fade, nor did Noiz(aka asshole)'s problematic attitude, and Mizuki was released from the hospital. Ren was as faithful a companion to Aoba as ever and Mink (aka asshole number two) disappeared for the better. If you took those facts into consideration, the only difference was how they grew from their experience: a bond so fierce as to challenge the world together.

And Koujaku felt alone.

Aoba, a friend to cling to when words could not find their way into conversation, a person to fear losing, put strains on their friendship ever since returning. In the depths of his dreams, Koujaku envisioned his smile, those laughs, and the peace that settled into Aoba's cheeks and the ends of his hair whenever he slept. He would stretch his memory to the greatest expanse, reaching out to further envision himself caressing Aoba's jaw. But in reality, those features warped into darkness so dangerous and frightening that Koujaku begged for that part to be fictional as well. He prayed to whatever damned gods were out in the expanse of the sky that he might see the wondrous sight of Aoba sinking into his pillow with a smile on his lips; but Aoba had not gifted him with the sight since many months prior, before Toue's secrets were put into the light.

A darker, dim past also seeped into his memories without the companionship of a friend to fill the holes. Friend. A term conflicting in and of itself, though Koujaku refuted the concept of anything else immediately.

He took another drag of his cigarette, peering out into the cluttered street.

"Koujaku..."

He tipped his head, noting the door ajar and a familiar face with beautiful—gorgeously beautiful, mesmerizing long—long hair approach.

_Talk. Talk to him. Ask him. Tell him. Aoba. Aoba. _

_Aoba..._

"Hm...?" Koujaku hummed.

"You seem..." _Distraught? Confused? Sullen?_ "Tired."

"Afraid I'll steal your bed tonight?" he replied, lips curling into a heavy grin.

"Ah—? No, no, that's not what I..."

Koujaku's laughter hanged at the edges of his breath. That was the Aoba he knew since a child, innocent and flustered with a hint of something tasteful; but the swell of kindness within those words now knew the ragged edges of a blade. He could feel the texture of each one rolling off Aoba's tongue, almost as if it were spilling onto his own. As improper as the metaphor rang in his head, Koujaku could not revoke the concept.

(Many men explored their sexuality to expand their knowledge, but Koujaku was certainly not one of them. Until now. Now he wished to taste the sweat on_ his_ skin and the sweetness of_ his_ voice, to run his fingers through _his_ hair, to be given that godly privilege...)

"You seem tired too. Not getting enough sleep?" Koujaku abruptly responded.

Aoba hesitated.

"You can tell me anything."

"...No, it's...nothing."

A long stare. "Is it about Clear?"

The mere mention of the name sent Aoba into a concealed fit, evident for Koujaku to swallow up with his own gaze. Aoba did not talk about the strangely-masked man, nor of any specifics regarding their adventures into Platinum Jail. Never. What little he heard trickled to him through Tae-san. But for six months, Koujaku could not fathom that a stranger he'd only just met could have been the culprit of such emotional turmoil—a non living, artificially produced machine at that! And yet, it was just like Aoba...

(Koujaku claimed life returned to normal; however, he knew better than most that life would never be the same.)

"Clear..." Aoba murmured, breaking the name into two delicate syllables. "I suppose...it is. But I...I'm recovering. I know the chances are slim that he...could actually be repaired. I've accepted that."

"And if he never returns?"

"Well...I have Granny, Haga-san, Noiz...and I have you, don't I?"

The pain swelling in his stomach leaped to his chest in that moment, warming and spreading and doing twists and back-flips. A beautiful seedling, growing in the depths of his heart from a time he couldn't begin to pinpoint, poked it's roots out, tangling and strangling the beating organ in blossoming agony. The bliss hurried to his lips, pulling the corners into a dazed smile.

The conversation trickled into silence. Aoba needed him, and whatever this combustible feeling was for his friend—the best of friends, a friend, just a friend—swallowed this knowledge with a greedy mouth. The darkest roots prodded at his mind, but now Koujaku held something tangible enough to fight back.

"Always."

Yet the blackness etched into his spine festered, unnamed and ignored, waiting for the opportunity to erupt.


End file.
